


Embers

by xxystos



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Spoilers, M/M, Mild Language, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, Tags Contain Spoilers, Underage Drinking, plot heavy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-12-24 00:21:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21090254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxystos/pseuds/xxystos
Summary: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Crown Prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, had presented.As an omega.In a world where being an alpha means everything, presenting as an omega introduces new challenges and issues that Dimitri is unprepared for.





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a general disclaimer; I'm terrible at tags, but it's rated M for a reason. Reader discretion advised.
> 
> Expect weekly updates on Thursday/Fridays (PST) since I'll be working on multiple projects.
> 
> **Update:** endnotes will now contain clarifications regarding non-traditional A/B/O schematics that I employ. Some clarifications will contain spoilers for the current chapter.
> 
> **There will be spoilers for all routes.**

There is no ceremony, nor the opulent fanfare of trumpets, nor gratuities or tributes. No celebration, no unbridled excitement, no elation. It is a day as any other but, as the sun barrages gently against his closed eyelids, Dimitri is well aware that it is a day unlike any other.

It is his date of birth, the day in which he turns eighteen, and the day he will finally present.

He has heard horror stories of presentation day—experienced a few firsthand within the stone walls of the monastery—and so he fears it enough to draw the sateen of his sheets up, covering his face, desperate for a few more minutes of sleep. It is a useless toil; sleep had eluded him throughout the night, only coming after hours of ceaseless tossing and turning, and so the likelihood of it reappearing minutes after awakening is miniscule.

Somehow, though his mind races aimlessly and boisterously, he prays to the goddess that his presentation might go as smoothly as Edelgard’s had. She was the first of the house leaders to present, and so every student within the academy had been curious as to how these affairs might work amongst the royalty. Were there any notable differences? Would her disposition change so vastly that she might be unrecognizable? However, after a week’s worth of ostracization, she emerged whole, healthy, and outwardly unchanged. She had never needed to explicitly tell others her orientation for them to speculate; she must have presented as an alpha. It is what the Empire would expect of its future emperor.

Claude, on the other hand, had faced distinct trials during his presentation, and so Dimitri has no guarantees that the presentation of someone of royal lineage is any different, any easier.

Be it because his room lies far closer to Dimitri’s than Edelgard’s, or simply because his presentation proved more difficult to suppress, Dimitri may never know, but he was thoroughly exposed to the musk of the future Grand Duke’s first rut. It was a strong odor, heady and stifling, and Dimitri knew at that moment that what Claude needed most was not food or drink, conversation or empathy; he needed distance, and plenty of it.

Where Edelgard had been complacent and pacific, Claude was violent and insatiable. His rage, his overprotective nature, could not be quelled, and he growled at even the betas, bearing no distinct or aggressive odor, who dared pass by his locked doors. On one occasion, Byleth attempted to enter his quarters with a meal and a few assignments he had missed. Needless to say, she did not dare attempt to enter again until his rut had long passed.

It is only after these memories have passed that Dimitri realizes how stiff his muscles are, how tightly he has been clinging to the sateen. His knuckles are white, skin taut; his fingers tremble with exertion as he forces them to relax. There had been a time when he had not cowered in fear at the prospect of presenting, but that had been ages ago, as a child, when Felix’s elder brother spewed tales of immodesty that sent his childish mind spiraling at the possibilities. Now, though, he is more mature; he better understands that lust results in consequence. 

He pushes his sheets down so that they rest against his chest and glances about the room. With how brightly light streams within through partially-draped windows, it must be late in the morning already. He is missing a class—trajectory, perhaps, or something else unimportant—but the monastery staff are already well aware of his predicament. He will not be in attendance for a week while his rut passes.

His rut. Again, his fingers threaten to clench into tight fists, but he pries them open so that they splay unnaturally against the blue sheets. 

If—no, _when_—he presents as an alpha, he will be one step closer to taking his rightful place on the throne. It is not as though he does not trust in the regent; he has ruled well in Lambert’s stead for years, even managing to pacify disputes that the former king had struggled with before his passing. No, it is more a result of his pride, of his guilt. Dimitri needs to take the throne because it is his. He does not necessarily want it, but Lambert would have wanted him to have it, and so he will graciously take it when his time comes.

That same throne will aid him in enacting his revenge. That same Kingdom will flourish, bountiful with harvest and conquest, under his rule. He will ensure that this is the case. He has studied, trained, and prayed tirelessly for this. He will not fail his father nor soil the Blaiddyd name.

His thoughts grow unpleasant with the recollections of his father, and so he rises from his bed to search for some form of distraction; anything to bide time until his rut inevitably arrives. He cannot leave his room, that much had been drilled into his mind by Manuela just weeks ago, and so he digs through his books and unfinished schoolwork for anything of interest. 

He does not know the exact hour of his birth, and so he does not know exactly when the telltale signs of presentation are scheduled to begin. Deep down, he longs for it to begin now, to get it out of the way as soon as possible; another part of him prays that it will not come until nightfall, when the others are long asleep, so that he might have some silence and solitude in order to sate himself. 

Yet another part of himself, small and quiet in comparison to the others, wishes he could be as Byleth—she bears a Crest, a Major Crest at that, yet she had never presented. She had never been burdened with the disturbances of heats and ruts and all of the nonsense that emerged because of them. And, still, no one thought any less of her because of it. Sylvain had blabbered over a hot meal that the professor was extraordinarily lucky, to bear the blessing of a Crest yet to never pay for it. Dimitri had dismissed his words at the time, but he is now coming to understand the malice laced in them.

He takes up a dulled longsword and some whetstone and sets to work. There is little else to do, what with how uninteresting his textbooks are, and the work busies both his hands and his mind. In a few hours, perhaps even minutes, he will be a lightheaded mess of disproportionate, unquenchable lust. He takes what little control he has over himself at the moment with pleasure.

He is unsure how much time has passed when a gentle knock echoes throughout his quarters and the scent of food seeps in from beneath his door. “Enter,” he calls, placing the now-sharp blade against the mahogany of his desk. 

He had recognized his guest immediately from their familiar style of knocking, but it is still a welcome comfort to see Dedue, tray of food in one hand and precariously balanced paperwork in the other. Dimitri hurries forth to grab the papers before they slip and fall to the floor; Dedue stiffens at the help but allows it without riposte. “You still have not started.”

It is stated matter-of-factly, without hint of questioning, and so Dimitri answers with, “I wish it would start.”

“I worry,” Dedue admits, placing the tray on the desk beside the sword. Dimitri does not miss how long Dedue’s eyes hover over the glistening blade. “I will not be able to see you for one week when it begins.”

“Think of it as a vacation,” Dimitri jests, taking his meal over to his bed in order to eat comfortably. Soup—adequate for the time of year, and nutritious in light of the circumstances. Dimitri wonders if Dedue had made it himself. “That is what I am doing to cope: thinking of it as a weeklong vacation.”

“It is not a vacation, Your Highness,” Dedue retorts, and he watches as a caretaker might as Dimitri lifts the first spoonful to his lips. He then repeats, “I worry.”

“It is a mere rut,” Dimitri says jovially, and his laughter shakes the cutlery atop the tray. “None have died from rut, my friend.”

“It is a week of suffering.” A pause as Dimitri takes in a mouthful. “Strong men have been beaten by their first rut.”

“Are you insinuating that I am not strong enough?” It is meant in jest, playful banter, but Dedue makes a shocked face before shifting to kneel in apology. “No, no, stand, Dedue. I understand; you have good intentions.”

Still knelt, eyes averted to the floor, Dedue shakes his head. “No, you are right. I spoke out of turn.”

The room falls silent, only the quiet sloshing of Dimitri’s soup to be heard within its walls. He poses a question, one meant to lighten the mood, one without answer: “What time to you believe it will begin?”

“Soon. You are beginning to emanate a pleasant scent, my liege.”

“Ah.” Dimitri takes a few more drinks of soup before licking its residue from his lips and thrusting the tray out toward Dedue. “Thank you for the meal, my friend, but I must ask that you leave.”

Dedue, finally risen, takes the tray and tosses Dimitri a puzzled glance. “Are you certain, Your Highness? I am not affected by your pheromones.”

“Yes, I know,” Dimitri replies dismissively, and he rises from his seat on the bed to push Dedue out the door. “But I will be affected by your presence.” That is not the sole reason for Dimitri’s insistence—he would never admit to it, but he is embarrassed. A rut will diminish him to his base instincts, to an animalistic side that is normally repressed; it is something he does not wish people to remember him by, even fleetingly. “Please forgive me.”

He is left alone after that, and his attention returns to the blade. At this point, it is sharp enough to slice through skin as though it were butter, but he continues to sharpen it if only to relieve the tension from his fingers. He cannot smell the scent that Dedue had claimed he was giving off, but he must believe him.

He had described the smell as pleasant. It is a common word, ascribing little, but not once in the presence of another alpha had Dimitri considered their scent to be _pleasant_. The scent of an alpha is meant to ward off potential threats while attracting docile omegas—Dimitri had always considered it abrasive and intrusive. Pleasant?

He dismisses the occurrence and busies himself again with the sword. When a slight sends him rushing in search of a makeshift bandage, he decides that it is time to find something else to distract himself with. It is easier said than done. The sun is still high, signaling that noon has only just passed, and he craves fresh air and greenery. His blade rests, sharpened and polished, as though mocking; it scorns him silently as he awaits fate.

And then something happens within. It is small, insignificant, like the lighting and distinguishing of a match, but it is there, and Dimitri’s eyes widen at the sensation. A gentle curdle, easily confused as the growling of his stomach, but accompanied by a searing heat that burns against his core.

He had felt it before, once or twice. First, as a child, unknowing and innocent, and he had dismissed it. Then, as an adolescent, more conscious, able to sate himself with an unskilled hand and a dirtied rag. And now, as an adult. It would be different from before. A hand and some oil would not be able to calm his aches. It would be a week of relentless rut.

The feeling disappears as soon as it had begun, and so Dimitri takes a few deep, calming breaths before lying back against his unmade bed. It will come shortly, full-throttle, and he knows not how to prepare for it. He considers readying himself by disrobing but considers it crass and, of course, vexing. Instead, he lies on his back, staring at the ceiling, awaiting divine punishment.

What comes first is an unabated moisture, so much so that he believes he has soiled his briefs, and he lurches up only to be thrown back down by dizziness. It had been instant—one moment he had been dry, conscious, thoughtful. The next he was soaked through, staining his bedsheets, and unable to focus on anything but that flame in his core. The gentle light of a match is now more intense than a forest fire, more potent than black magic.

He hugs a pillow against his core, as if the act will stop anything, and feels his hips unwittingly begin to rut against it, seeking friction. What little he receives does nothing to calm him, and he bites at his lower lip to prevent a whimper from escaping. 

Claude had told him, and he had ignored the warning as little more than dramatic rambling. _You won’t be able to think about anything but the rut. No food, no water, no people. It’s like you’re an animal._

Dimitri holds back another inadvertent sound as he grinds against his pillow. It is sopping at this point, moist with whatever fluids his body had begun to instinctively produce, and only in the very back of his mind does he realize how different this is from the things he had learned about ruts. 

He bucks insensibly for anywhere from minutes to hours when frantic knocking interrupts him and he tosses the pillow aside. His limbs move on their own, flinging across his bed so that his feet rest steady against the floor, and he takes languid steps toward the sound. “Who is it?” he drawls, unaware of the honey in his voice, the velvet of his tone.

There is a long pause and Dimitri reaches the door, placing a hand against its handle. “Lock your door,” comes a voice, and Dimitri cannot distinguish its bearer in this state. “Please, Dimitri, lock your door before—”

Dimitri turns the handle, intending to open the door, to allow his guest entry, but whoever rests on the opposite end yanks the door closed hurriedly just as it is cracked open. “Come in,” Dimitri sings, sugary and sweet. “I love company.”

Another long pause interrupts their conversation, and Dimitri tries the handle again with little luck. In any other circumstance, he could trigger the power of his Crest and fling the door open without second thought; now, though, his body is defying all orders. Even his legs, muscular and well-trained, wobble as he leans against the door, breathing heavily. 

“Please,” he whines, lips brushing against wood. His senses, heightened, pick up on a sultry scent. “Please come in. I need you.”

Another bout of silence, one that Dimitri takes as consideration if only for the sake of sanity, before he tries the knob again. He has luck for a moment, tugging the door toward himself, but it is closed again before he can get far. “Lock your door,” the voice repeats. “Oh my gods, someone call a beta!”

There is a loud clamor from outside, voices and footsteps and doors opening and closing. Dimitri listens intently, ear against the door, hips grinding lazily against its frame. “Pleasure me,” he begs, the latter half of his request drowned by a groan. “I need you.”

And then the door is flung open, bashing against his unprepared temple, and he is sent sprawling to the floor. The back of his head comes to rest against the leg of his desk and his eyes struggle to refocus after the shock only to be covered by a heavy hand. “You’re a mess,” that same voice says, and Dimitri feels an excited tremor descend his spine. “Teach’s coming. Just—”

Dimitri’s hands, clammy but capable, reach blindly and wrap around his assailant’s collar, tugging ferociously until that ceaseless mouth comes to rest against his own. His tongue seeks purchase; the other’s lips remain sealed, tight and strong. They pull away after a moment, taking their hand with them, and Dimitri can finally see.

“Claude,” he says, and his voice is still honeyed. Something within, past that molten pit, had been craving Dedue or Felix, someone close; another part, large and loud, cares not who so long as his physical needs are sated. His thighs spread instinctively, and he continues, “You came for me.” And again,” I need you.”

Claude hesitates, obviously uncomfortable with his position straddling the hips of the Kingdom’s heir, but he does not move away. Instead, he straightens his back so that he is sitting up and takes Dimitri’s wrists into one of his hands. It is an obvious attempt at dominance, one that Dimitri could free himself from easily were he not so inflamed.

However, Dimitri’s hazy mind had expected a different result from this dominance. Claude is not pinning him to have his way with him, and Dimitri shifts angrily at the realization. “What are you waiting for? I know you want me. I can smell it.”

Claude’s face flushes at the words and he, too, begins to shift. The position is uncomfortable for them both, and Dimitri manages to deduce past his rut that he is stalling for time. _Teach’s coming._ She must be near, by now, but Dimitri could still turn the tides in his favor. Claude is aroused, unable to hide the fact, and Dimitri can use that to his advantage.

He shifts again, rubbing his moistened body against the rough of his rug, and Claude’s expression changes almost unnoticeably at the action. Friction, feather-light, yet craved. Dimitri lets loose a soft moan, one that bounces ceremoniously off of the walls, and the red tinging Claude’s cheeks deepens. “I want you,” Dimitri says, shifting his hands so that he can rub a thumb down one of Claude’s fingers. He flinches but does not pull away.

“You’re not thinking straight,” he replies, as though he could talk sense into Dimitri, but the prince gives a drunken grin and jerks his hips upward. That earns a strong reaction from Claude, who closes his eyes and takes his lower lip in between his teeth. “Please, Dimitri, I’m trying to hold back.”

“Why?” Dimitri asks, voice dripping seduction, and he bucks again in order to relish in what little friction the action provides. “There is no need to hold back. I long for you just as you long for me.”

Claude hesitates, rationality beginning to fade, when the clamor from before once again tinges the hall. He looks almost relieved as he releases Dimitri’s hands and plants his own against the prince’s shoulders, pinning him more efficiently. “Oh, thank gods,” he says, turning slightly when footsteps approach the open door, and the new angle of his jaw allows for the perfect strike against his cheek.

He is sent sprawling, flung harshly off of Dimitri’s pliant body, and more people enter the room at the disturbance. Dimitri is so hazed that he almost believes he had been the one to swing, but Dedue is standing above him in an instant, taking in his condition. Dedue grabs the collar of Claude’s shirt, lifting him by it so that their noses nearly touch, and asks through gritted teeth, “What were you doing to His Highness?”

The rational end of Dimitri insists that he stop Dedue, that his fury will only worsen the situation; his rut, predominant and blaring, forces him to watch in awe while grinding his lower half against his flattened palm. 

Claude’s wide greens bounce from Dedue to Dimitri and back, as though speaking through his gaze, but Dedue is too angered to think. Felix, yet to present, rushes forward in Claude’s defense, tugging at Dedue’s shoulders as though to pry him off. “Get the fuck out, both of you—”

“—in heat—” Sylvain.

“—Professor’s supposed to—” Hilda.

“—can’t become king, right?” Ingrid, hushed.

Dimitri, surrounded by voices and movement and action, curls in on himself and presses his fingers deep into his hair, obviously disturbed. There are too many people, too many scents, and it threatens to drive him insane. 

And finally, cutting through the masses like an arrow through a battlefield, Byleth emerges and calms the storm. There is something about her presence that sets every pheromone in the room at ease, and the haze clouding Dimitri’s rationality fades. He is suddenly red-faced and self-conscious, closing the gap between his thighs hurriedly and shrinking away from the pool of clear liquid beneath himself. 

Byleth separates Claude and Dedue forcibly, tossing them outside as though they were nothing but ragdolls, and empties the room before turning her attention to Dimitri. Her eyes hover over the discreet clues that remain in the room: the liquid, the things that had toppled from upon his desk on impact, the dejected vial of oil still on his bed, the clothes that remain fitted to his body yet soaked through. 

He does not need to hear her speak the words to understand.

“You’re in heat, Dimitri.”

Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Crown Prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, had presented. 

“You aren’t an alpha.”

As an omega.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Presentation occurs on one's eighteenth birthdate, at the exact hour of one's birth.
>   * Pheromones take the form of scents. Alphan pheromones are sultry—like sweat. Betas do not expel pheromones. Omegan pheromones are sweet—like ripe fruit.
>   * Only Crest-bearers present, and the nature of their Crest—Major or Minor—affects the outcome of their presentation (further explained in future chapters).
>   * Ruts/heats cause irrationality in alphas/omegas (further explained in future chapters)
>   * Byleth's presence calms pheromones, thus stifling ruts/heats momentarily (further explained in future chapters).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support on the prologue! Truly did not expect it. 
> 
> As promised, endnotes will now contain clarifications, in order as presented in the current chapter. The prologue's beginning and endnotes have been updated to reflect this change.

His room is a prison; his heat, a punishment. He meets with no one except when it is time to be fed, and even then it is only Dedue, rigid in his duty, unfettered by Dimitri’s honeyed voice and his anguished pleas for pleasure. Heat is like an illness that leaves him feverish, woozy; he cannot think properly or form coherent sentences—his mind is muddled beyond comprehension.

On the second day, he explores his new body. There are no visible changes, but his pleasure is now found in crevices that had previously gone undiscovered. Fingers that once curled to pump now jut straight to prod. His skin is sticky and sensitive, responsive to miniscule touches, bright pink when brushed against. His voice, like that of a songbird, rings high and shrill, overwhelming and effeminate. 

If the second day is one of discovery, then the third is one of commitment—to commit the body to memory, to commit to the idea of subservience, to commit lust-driven sin. There is no rationality to his touch, but it sates him, and so he continues. His skin glistens silver, having wept sweat throughout the night, and his pheromones are diluted by his own sultry odor. He is disgusted enough to consciously ask for a basin of cold water from Dedue, and his vassal towels him down with the patience of a mother.

The fourth day is hell. There is no better word to describe it. His touch, weak and unpracticed, is no longer enough to bring about release, and he lies under apprehensive sunlight, fingers cramping as he strains them. And then Byleth comes, and he is no longer roused; he tidies himself as she waits just outside, and she enters to a mess of sateen and silk, torn rags, and a half-empty basin. To Dimitri’s surprise, Linhardt trails behind.

Byleth asks him an array of questions. “How are you feeling?” and “Have you eaten?” and “Did you sleep at all?” He answers each query honestly, conscious of the physical state he is in, while Linhardt watches from afar, jotting something or other down. 

Linhardt then asks him a few questions of his own, more personal in a sense: “What Crest do you bear?” and “What of your father’s Crest?” and “Do you know of any other omegas in your family?” Dimitri finds it odd that he would be pestered so, and that Byleth would allow Linhardt to conduct convoluted research on him, but he ultimately accepts it in exchange for a few minutes of blissful control. 

“Linhardt and Hanneman have agreed to try and find a reversal,” Byleth explains as Linhardt exits, a yawn at his lips. “The chances are slim, but I know how much this means to you. In the meantime, eat well and try to get some rest. You look terrible.”

Before she can leave, Dimitri has his fingers curled around the sleeve of her jacket, and she turns back to face him with an inquisitive stare. “Please,” he begins, unsure, “do not allow the word to spread. I would like as few people as possible to know that I am….”

“Don’t worry,” she replies with a stout nod, and when she exits, the haze returns.

The remaining days pass thickly, immemorable and agonizing, and then his heat is over. When he comes to, he is lying flat on his back against a sea of rumpled sateen, and Dedue is gently pressing a moist towel to his forehead. There is a wonderful smell, pleasant and sweet, and when he rises, there is food at his bedside and a vat of rose-scented bathwater at his feet.

“Your Highness,” Dedue says, and there is a tinge of relief in his tone. He continues to dapple the towel against Dimitri’s skin as his prince takes some stew into his mouth. “Your presence is requested when you are feeling better.” After a glance, “And after you have tidied up.”

Whereas his heat was a battle, unending and painful, post-heat is akin to a lover’s caress, the tranquil touch of a feather. His skin glows, his hair bounces, his mind is clear. He bathes once in rosewater, relishing in the cold, then again at the bathhouse, allowing warmth to consume him and wash away the foul memories of just hours prior. 

When he is summoned, it is to the infirmary, and Manuela is there alongside Byleth. Byleth apologizes—“Manuela has to know.”—and he is given suppressants, alongside pointed advice on how to better manage upcoming heats. Manuela speaks with an expertise that she lacks about anatomy that she does not have, and her expansive vocabulary regarding the male body does little to help Dimitri.

He leaves not empty-handed, and not without Byleth’s company. “Thank you,” he starts meekly, eyes averted, warmth spreading over his cheeks. “You saw me in that state and did not pass judgment. I am grateful.”

She opens her mouth in an effort to speak before catching sight of something and pressing her lips together, tight. “If you need anything, I’ll be with my dad,” she says blankly, and when she turns on her heel, Dimitri is alone.

Or so he believes. At the end of the corridor lies a head of tousled brown, a short braid ending in a bead of gold, and piercing forest eyes. They are both still for a moment, eyes locked, hearts pounding, and then Dimitri turns away, back in the direction of the infirmary.

“Wait, wait,” Claude calls softly, and his footsteps echo through the hall. Dimitri obeys. He expects a hand on his shoulder or fingers to slide against his own, but Claude stops beside him and awaits an appropriate interval in which to speak. When he does, his voice is weak, uncharacteristic: “I’m sorry.”

Dimitri had not been expecting an apology, and so his eyes snap to Claude’s. The first thing he sees is not vibrant green or long, dark lashes; a mottled blue bruise catches his eye, and then his gaze drifts lower to the swell of a still-healing lip—the aftermath of Dedue’s attack. “Why are you apologizing? I should—”

“I’m apologizing because I lost it,” Claude snaps before Dimitri can blame himself. His hands gesture animatedly, but not once do they make to touch Dimitri. “I swear, I wouldn’t—I wasn’t—” A sigh, then a deep inhale. “No; no excuses. I’m sorry.”

“There is nothing to apologize for,” Dimitri insists, but he catches the disbelief in Claude’s sharp exhale. “I understand the potency of pheromones. And it is not every day that one is exposed to an omega’s heat.”

Claude’s expression remains neutral, unfazed, before he asks quietly, “Are you okay?”

The concern laced in the question is endearing, if only because Claude is not the type to openly express such an emotion. Among the Blue Lions especially, he is known to fabricate emotion for the sole purpose of tactical advantage. This, though, is different; there is no advantage to be gained, and so Dimitri assumes that he must be genuine. He smiles, subdued, and begins, “Post-heat is—”

“No. I mean…how are you taking it?” After a pause, he clarifies, “You always thought you’d be an alpha, didn’t you?”

“Ah, that.” Dimitri glances away, simultaneously pensive and meek. “Yes. My father was one, as was my mother. I suppose I was under the assumption that presentation was influenced by genetics.” Then, answering Claude’s previous question, “I will get by. Somehow.”

Claude takes him in for a moment, gaze analytical, before his eyes avert to the sack in the prince’s arms. “I can help with that,” he offers. 

There is something unspoken in that petition—it is not a request that Dimitri would usually decline, but the way in which it is asked leaves him wary. It is as though Claude believes he is incapable of carrying a bag, weighing less than a training lance, to his dormitory. “No, thank you. I can manage.”

When Claude grins, it does not reach his eyes.

* * *

And then it is the night of the ball, and Dimitri is done up in tight, royal blue charmeuse. He had forgotten about the ball and the White Heron Cup as a result of his heat; its unexpected approach is a gentle wave of relief. There is not a class mission this month. He is free to enjoy himself.

The monastery is decorated for the occasion, strewn with thick, mismatching candles bearing a distinctly Faerghan scent—it reminds Dimitri of evenings spent playing in the woods as a child, using twigs to spar and pretending colorful, misshapen pebbles were currency. It was a better time, before he had to worry about ruts—now heats—and taking the throne from his father.

The candles extend throughout the length of the monastery and over the bridge to the chapel, where the dances will take place. They glow now, dull in comparison to the brilliance of the setting sun, and Dimitri relishes in the familiar scent. There are other decorations, too; thick red samite ribbons, Adrestian, and glistening white stones from Leicester’s prided Airmid River. The monastery itself is a symbol of unification tonight.

He pauses on the bridge, gazing in the direction of the setting sun. A millennium of peace approaches. He will be at the cusp of his prominence, at that time. The regency will end, and the era of King Dimitri will begin. Just the thought, powerful and exciting, erects the hair at the base of his neck. All he must do is take the throne. It sounds simple. He knows it is not.

He dances with a commoner of the Black Eagle house to begin. It is tradition for nobility to first dance with a commoner of another house; another symbol of solidarity though subdued, respectful. She is nimble, with glossy hair the color of fine rubies and large eyes that match. Her lips, painted the hue of expensive wine, part when she says, “You’re the Crown Prince of Faerghus, right?”

Dimitri is used to reverence when being addressed as such; she lacks any. “Yes,” he says, voice partially drowned by speech and music. They twirl as the rhythm changes, quickens, and her hair flutters out of its coiffure. “And you are?”

She is familiar, though he cannot recall why, and he never receives an answer. The song lapses, drifts into a Leicesteran melody meant to be danced between two members of the same sex, and she disappears in a twister of red, gravitating toward her house leader. In the meantime, Dimitri dances alone, hands still outstretched, vexed at having been left behind without so much as a goodbye.

When a warmth grazes against his palm, it belongs to Linhardt, and he yawns openly as they begin to sway. “I thought I should talk to you,” he says. His hesitation does not go unnoticed, but Dimitri allows him to speak. “Professor Hanneman and I are working on something to…fix you.” Dimitri nods and they fall into a twirl, swift and exerting, and Linhardt grimaces at the task. “Crests and orientations go hand-in-hand, after all.”

“Is that so?” Dimitri asks, generally incompetent regarding the subject. 

“Of course,” Linhardt scoffs, as though offended by his lack of knowledge. “Have you ever considered why the vast majority of the population is beta?” He rolls his eyes. “I’m not here to explain such elementary things. I came to tell you that we’re working on—” The song hastens, and he frowns as his feet are forced to move faster. “Never mind. I don’t feel like explaining.”

“Please do—” 

“No, I don’t think I will.”

“Please, Linhardt. Enlighten me.”

Linhardt twists his lips into an unabashed frown before allowing his gaze to drop. “I don’t believe it will work,” he says, and Dimitri’s heart drops. “There are too many anatomical discrepancies—the womb, especially—”

“The _what?_”

“—and it isn’t as though we can just give you a knot. Hanneman has some faith, but I believe he just wants to experiment. I assume a permanent suppressant is the closest we’ll get to what you seek, but it would also render you impotent.” The song begins to culminate, to slow and stifle, and Linhardt’s grasp against his hand and shoulder loosens. “Read a book, maybe. It’ll teach you things.”

When he retreats, Dimitri is alone and with arms comically outstretched, and he resigns himself to the far corner of the hall, where modestly-dressed servants pour chalices of mock champagne. He takes a glass, grateful for anything to distract from the dancefloor, and swirls it as a connoisseur might before taking a sip. It stings. 

He is beckoned into a few more dances, some slow waltzes while others resemble exotic tangos, and the charmeuse of his attire sticks snug to his body as he begins to perspire. When he grows tired of dance, he turns to gossip; when that bores him, he excuses himself to the ramparts and gazes at the stars. 

The stars. They are the same here as they had been in Faerghus, at home, in that castle nestled on the mountainside overlooking the sea. He had once stared at the stars for hours before bed, written languid poems of his love for them on yellowing scrolls and folded them into small squares to be tucked away and forgotten. They are the same now, years later, unperturbed by the Tragedy, unfazed by his presentation. If only he could be as resilient as they.

His father had once admired the stars with him. They had both dressed in thick furs and sat together on an ornate chaise on the balcony facing Fhirdiad. Lambert had pointed up at a group of stars and declared, “That is Leo minor, the lion cub. And you, Dimitri, are my little lion,” and then they had shared a warm embrace that melted the flakes of snow nestled between them.

Later, Dimitri had tirelessly researched the constellations to make his father proud. There was Leo, the large lion, but Dimitri considered his father to be Circinus, the compass, an unfailing guide. That is, after all, what Lambert had always been to him—not solely a father or a king, but a mentor, guiding him down a path that was all at once noble and righteous and admirable. He had planned on telling his father of his interest in astronomy, but the Tragedy came and passed, and it remains a secret that none know of.

He wonders what Lambert would think of him presenting as an omega. Somewhere, below that admiration for his father, he thinks Lambert might have denounced him.

Under the light of the waning moon, as Dimitri is lost in thought, cautious steps approach, and he turns to meet with jaded green and golden brocade. “I didn’t expect you to want to get away,” Claude says as he places his elbows on the stone parapets. In one hand rests a glistening goblet filled to the brim with dark liquid, and Dimitri is nearly certain that he has somehow gotten his hands on genuine wine. It would not be surprising.

“I needed a break,” Dimitri answers honestly, returning his gaze to the stars. Where the sky had been spotless minutes ago, there are now thin cirrus clouds that haze the constellations. “And you? You are always so…outgoing.”

“You know me better than that,” Claude huffs, and his breath is a mist of condensation against the chilled atmosphere. “I’m a silver-tongued bastard, right?” His tone is bitter, and when he takes a long swig of his drink, Dimitri is positive that he is at least somewhat inebriated. His eyes rove over the stars, stopping on a particular group of them, before he asks, “Do you believe in fate?”

The question is unexpected, and so Dimitri takes a moment to respond. “I suppose I must.” He has, after all, been victim to fate recently.

Claude takes the answer in, swirling his wine unhurriedly. “How firm,” he mutters, “do you think fate is? D’you think you can change it? D’you think mortal men have the power to change their own destiny? Or are we supposed to fit the roles we’re given?”

Dimitri ponders for another response before quirking his brows and firing his own query: “Feeling philosophical tonight, are you?”

“This is about you, not me,” and a light hiccup confirms Dimitri’s earlier theory regarding Claude’s drunkenness. “D’you think there’s a reason for every crappy thing that happens to you? D’you—”

“Claude, if this is about my presentation, then I ask you to stop. I do not wish to speak of it.”

Claude purses his lips, then glances at his goblet. Extending his arm, he offers Dimitri a drink. “Have some. It’s good.”

Dimitri would not know the difference either way, but he takes in a mouthful that burns against his throat when he swallows. “If you intend to inebriate me to get me to speak—”

“Actually, the opposite,” Claude says, pressing his cheek against stone. He looks up at Dimitri through thick lashes with a scrutiny that presses the prince into another gulp. “You talk too much. Too many big words. Ever heard of contractions? Slang?” He sighs and a smile curves his lips upward; Dimitri downs yet another mouthful at the sight. “Don’t you ever wanna just—just let go?”

“No.” When Dimitri hands the goblet back, it is nearly empty, and Claude tips the remainder of the drink into his own mouth. 

Claude’s lips contort into something akin to a frown and he turns away, chin scraping lightly against stone. “You’re lying.”

“I am not.”

“Dimitri, you’re talking to a world-class liar. I can tell.” Then, more softly, in a tone previously unheard of, “You can tell me, you know.”

And so Dimitri does. Be it the drink they shared or the celebratory atmosphere, Dimitri ends up spewing dreams he had come to repress. Dreams of success and of splendor, visions of relief and resolution. Somewhere along the way, he mentions the Tragedy, and his emotions spiral out of control as he voices previously stifled wishes. Wishes to return his family; wishes to have died in their stead.

Claude listens, and the cloudiness of inebriation in his eyes fades when Dimitri’s words begin to slur in desperation. They shift so that they are both sitting, legs dangling precariously over the precipice which the ramparts overlook, and Dimitri says to the moon, “I wish I had the chance to change fate.”

They share a wordless silence after that, and Dimitri is vaguely aware of Claude’s forest eyes taking in the planes of his face. Finally, after minutes of still, he speaks. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“The Goddess Tower. Let’s make a wish there. That way, it’ll come true.”

They venture quietly, the only sounds between them hushed breaths and muffled steps. When they ascend the tower, Claude leads, and Dimitri watches as his traditional Leicesteran attire stretches and wrinkles with his every motion. The peak is in ruins, stone scattered and missing from the rooftop, but the disastrous state of it allows moonlight to seep in, coating olive cheeks with stardust.

“Make a wish,” Claude says, voice echoing in the darkness, and his eyes are bright when they meet Dimitri’s. “I wish…for unity.”

“I wish for peace.” It comes out unexpectedly, but it conveys what Dimitri truly desires, and so he makes no move to correct himself. 

They stand idle in the rubble, gazing at the sliver that is the moon, shoulders grazing, and Dimitri allows himself to dream—to wish, to hope—for the first time in years.

* * *

When the following morning comes, the sky is bleak, and rain patters unendingly against his window. He lies alone, swaddled like a child in borrowed wool blankets, and his eyes gravitate toward what had woken him: pounding, fierce and fast, against his door.

“Wake up, boar,” and Dimitri need not open the door to realize who is speaking. “There’s an emergency.”

An emergency does not describe the true horror of what has happened: Demonic Beasts, plentiful and powerful, were spotted earlier, near the Goddess Tower. As he throws on his armor, Dimitri wonders what might have happened had they decided to invade last night instead; if he and Claude had been alone in the tower with a half-dozen crazed beasts just below. Unarmed. Unprepared. They would have been killed.

When they head over, they are not the only students to have been summoned. The Black Eagles await eagerly, and the Golden Deer arrive shortly after. It seems the threat is not to be taken lightly; various battalions also await on the parapets, weapons glistening with raindrops. 

Byleth barks out orders before dragging Ferdinand and Dimitri aside, alone, beneath the shelter of an overhang. “Stay back.”

“Excuse me?” Ferdinand is the first to ask, placing an offended hand against his chest. “I—Ferdinand von Aegir of the esteemed House Aegir—do not shy from a battle.”

Byleth seems ready to retort fiercely, but her eyes snap to Dimitri for a brief moment before she sighs. Ferdinand does not seem to grasp the situation, does not understand why he and Dimitri specifically had been pulled away from the rest, and Byleth refuses to enlighten him. “You’re the two strongest we have,” she lies steadily. “If any is to break past us, I need you both to guard the monastery.” Then, with dramatic flair, “You two are the only ones we can depend on. We need you, Ferdinand.”

Ferdinand happily accepts afterward, and he and Dimitri stand soaked through as their classmates rally up a battle cry and depart. Ferdinand had been oblivious, but Dimitri knows better—they are the only two to have thus far presented omega, and Byleth must know of a negative correlation between Beasts and omegas to have kept them behind.

That, or she simply considers them weak. Dimitri represses a distasteful frown at the thought.

In the meantime, as his classmates are thrust into battle, he listens as Ferdinand boasts. “I always knew myself to be better than Edelgard,” he says. “Orientation matters not! See, I am on par with an alpha such as yourself! The frailty of omegas is a myth.”

“Truly,” Dimitri agrees, because for once he can relate to Ferdinand’s mad ramblings. “You must feel…odd. Being the only omega currently at the monastery.”

He scratches his chin daintily, glancing up as the clouds cease their rainfall for a moment. “Another will present, inevitably. We,” Dimitri tenses at the word, “are rare, but not _that_ rare.”

To speak with another is reassuring, especially when he is not being pitied or unnecessarily coddled. “And of your life at home,” Dimitri says, silently hoping that he is not overstepping boundaries. “Does your family know?”

“Goddess, no,” Ferdinand answers, an exasperated chuckle at his lips. “How could you possibly believe that my father would allow an omega in the household? No, it remains hidden, and it likely always will.”

Silence ensues and Dimitri busies himself by running his fingers over the sharp point of his lance. The sounds of battle, clashing metals and screams of anguish and the roars of felled Beasts, tinge the air. Ferdinand stands tall, attentive, with genuine faith in the professor’s words. Dimitri knows better. No Beast shall pass through their defenses.

Or so he believes. 

One moment, they both stand idle, wiping excess droplets from their blades; the next, an enormous Beast, ferocious and with dozens of teeth that gleam in their sharpness, bounds toward them, tearing at stone with its claws. They have both faced Beasts before, and they stand at the ready, spears pointed upward, prepared to gut the creature before it might damage the chapel.

Everything is normal. And then, like a spark amongst the driest grasses of a prairie, the fire within Dimitri’s core is lit, and his hands tremble. Ferdinand, too, wavers. The Beast approaches, slow, as though aware that there is no threat to be found here, and with the flick of its tail throws both weapons from their hands. Dimitri’s lance bounces noisily down the precipice; Ferdinand’s rolls to the end of the ramparts, threatening to tip over the edge at any moment.

If there is any control to be had, Dimitri cannot grasp it. His knees give way and he is a mess against the stone, hair matted against his cheeks in a mixture of the air’s previous rainfall and his own sweat. Ferdinand fights his instincts for a moment, panting at the effort, before also falling victim to instinct. 

Weakness. Submission. Perhaps that is all omegas are destined toward. 

But, no, Dimitri is not solely an omega. 

He is a prince, with a Kingdom to inherit and a family to avenge, and that thought burns more brightly than his own insolent urges. He fights as prey might its predator, just enough to stand, to face the Beast at his fullest. If he is to die, it will not be on his knees. The Crown Prince of Faerghus bows to no man, and certainly not to a Demonic Beast with the brain of a pigeon.

The Beast regards him with apathy, mouth agape, breath grating to the senses. Dimitri knows not why it has suddenly chosen to hesitate, to spare Ferdinand and himself a few minutes of respite, but it is just enough to take a few uncertain steps and retrieve Ferdinand’s lance and, in an act of utter malice, run its tip into the creature’s left eye.

It bellows in agony, swiping blindly, and Dimitri is flung against the stone parapets. His body aches upon impact, and his jagged breathing ensures a few broken ribs and a punctured lung. He will not last long without healing.

Ferdinand, too, has risen, but his attention is immediately on Dimitri. The Beast is approached from behind by familiar battalions, its attention stolen away. “Dimitri,” he starts, eyes wide with worry. He presses a hand to Dimitri’s forehead, gently moving his fringes aside. “You, too.”

“Yes,” Dimitri answers quietly, voice a wisp. Then, with a smile that belies his pain, “Do not tell anyone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Post-rut/post-heat is bliss.
>   * Suppressants, in the form of once-daily pills, completely stifle ruts and heats. They do not prevent reactions borne of pheromone exposure (further explained below).
>   * Betas are most common, followed by alphas, then omegas.
>   * All alphas have a knot. All omegas have a womb.
>   * Prejudices against alphas and omegas exist. Alphas are seen as overprotective and unnecessarily fierce. Omegas are seen as submissive and weak (further explained in future chapters).
>   * Demonic Beasts expel pheromones, dependent on form. Some give off alphan pheromones, others give off omegan pheromones.
>   * Exposure to pheromones, even when on suppressants, can cause rut/heat-like symptoms, and can force an alpha/omega into rut/heat if potent enough.


End file.
